by Kevin Hearne
“That’s quite a story.”
“I like to think of myself as a storyteller.”
He sips the beer. “For the record, I was legitimately asking you about prime rib. Actual prime rib. They do it here Friday and Saturday nights. Tonight’s Monday, though, so.”
She takes a drink from her margarita. Licks a little salt off, lets it crunch between her teeth. “Oh, then yeah, I like prime rib. The bloodier, the better.”
He holds up his beer. She takes hers and clinks it. “Cheers,” he says.
“Back atcha.”
They sit there for a little while. He finally says, “I’m not that fuckin’ old.”
“Great.”
He turns. Now he’s invested. Maybe even his feelings are hurt a little bit. Miriam always thinks it’s hilarious how men act so tough like they’re all steel rebar and beef jerky. In reality, men are soufflés: they puff up big but shrink fast at the slightest bump, shudder, or temperature dip. (Or maybe, she thinks, they’re like the balls that dangle between their legs: they shrivel fast when it gets too cold and sweat lots when it gets too hot.)
“How old do you think I am?”
She arches an eyebrow. “I’m not a carnival game.”
“Spare a Methuselah such as myself a moment of your insight.”
She sighs. Groans. “Ugh. God. Okay.” She looks him up and down. “You’ve got some mileage on you. Deep lines like tire treads, maybe a little dust and grit pressed in there. You’re the rubber that met the road, huh? Still. You look tired, but your eyes, they got sparks jumping between them.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“My age, goddamnit.”
“Oh. Right.” She clucks her tongue. “Let’s go with...sixty.”
“Sixty. You think I’m sixty years old.”
Miriam shrugs, noisily slurps her margarita. “Am I wrong?”
John pauses. Pops his lips a few times. Then he laughs big and loud. “You nailed that right to the wall. I turned sixty just last week. You have a talent.”
“Must be psychic,” she says, and again raises her glass—she taps the base of hers against the top of his sitting there still on the bar. “Anyway. Happy birthday. I hope you got all that you wished for. And a blowjob. Everyone deserves oral sex on their birthday.” She narrows her eyes and points an accusing finger. “Not that I’m offering, mind you.”
He waves her off. “I’ve been with younger women, and you know what? Not worth it.”
“Bullshit. You mean you wouldn’t go a couple rounds with me in the sack? Old man, I’d rock your world so hard, your pelvis would shatter and you’d love every second of it. I’d suck the Lipitor right out of you. Bang you so hard, you’d temporarily forget that you are on the downward slide of your life and that the deep, dark dirt nap awaits as the expiration date on your mortality tip-toes closer and closer and closer—the Reaper creeping ineluctably toward your bedside.”
“That’s dark.”
“That’s life.”
“You got that right. Where you’re wrong is: the vigors of youth are nothing compared to the rigors of experience.” He shrugs. “Besides, us old shrivs are grateful anytime wants to play with our balls or coochies. Two old folks together is two old folks very thankful someone wants to rub bits with them.”
“I’m eating,” she says, making a face.
“And apparently, according to you, I’m dying.”
“We’re all dying, John. Life wouldn’t be life if it weren’t for death.”
“Profound.”
“Just a little drunk. This is my third margarita and they make ’em strong.”
At that, the bartender comes back out with a steaming bowl. Mounded with red chili, dark meat, melting cheese. Janice opens a cupped hand; a couple lime halves spill out onto a cocktail napkin. John thanks her, starts squeezing the lime juice over the chili. He starts scooping it onto a spoon and blows on it to cool it.
Miriam says, “You know, my...dinner date is late, and you’re the right age and the mood is about right. I have this...bar bet I make with people, sometimes older guys like you, and I haven’t done it in a while.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yep. Wanna hear the bet?”
He pops the chili into his mouth, fans his mouth as steam comes out. Around the mouthful of food he says, “Lesh hear it.”
“I bet I can tell you how and when you’re gonna die.”
He smacks his lips, licks chili off them. Dabs at his beard with a napkin. “That’s morbid.”
“I figure we were headed that way already, but if I read you wrong—”
“No. I’m curious. You seemed to have a knack for guessing how old I am; maybe you can take a crack at imagining how I’ll die.”
She smirks. “I won’t be guessing. I’ll be telling you the facts.”
“Facts about something that hasn’t happened yet?”
“That’s right. I really am psychic. I’ll know, for absolute sure, how you suck the pipe. I’m no fake plastic Christmas tree, big fella, not just some pair of silicone tits bouncing like Jell-O molds: I am motherfucking bona fide, John.”
A moment there, where he gauges her. A scrutinizing stare like each eye is a laser pointer going over her every inch. Is she bogus? Is she crazy? (No to the former, yes to the latter, she thinks.) And then he wipes his hands off on the napkin and he says, “Let’s do it.”
“First, a dollar amount. Fifty?”
It’s then that Janice, the bartender, butts in. “Go lower, honey. John here just got laid off.” Though she says with a twinkle in her eye, “To his credit, he still manages to patronize this fine establishment every night.”
John smiles. “Same time every night, as a matter of fact.”
It must hit him hard—the talk of him being laid off. Miriam can see that. He’s trying not to let it, but he looks like he just got clipped in the nuts with a kid’s Wiffle ball bat and he’s trying not to look like it really hurts. He gives a sheepish grin and offers a shrug.
“Twenty,” Miriam says. “Betcha twenty bucks.”
“Done,” he says. “So, how’s this—”
But he sees her gaze flit toward the door of the lodge.
Someone comes in. A woman. Wide, swaying hips like the ass-end of a flightless bird. Draped in a colorful purple coat, poofy fur lining tucked under her neck, tickling her plump cheeks. The woman looks around. Spies Miriam. Gives a small nod.
You’re late, bitch, Miriam thinks, but instead, she just holds up an index finger as if to say, You need to wait.
John follows the exchange, sees who she’s gesturing towards. “I should’ve figured you two might’ve flocked together.”
“You know her?”
“In a town under a thousand, one weird arty psychic broad stands out.” Now he’s uncertain, though. Guarded. Reserved. “This some kinda con?”
“It’s not a con. I don’t actually know—uhh, I forget whatever her name is. She left a card on my car a couple days ago. Wanted to meet, so here we are.”
“Uh-huh. You know what? I’m good.”
“You’re good. You don’t wanna see how you die?”
“I feel like...something shady is happening here. Getting a weird vibe.”
“John, you don’t wanna take the bet, don’t take the bet.”
He frowns. “Wouldn’t a con artist say that?”
“I don’t know what a con artist would say, because I am not a con artist.” Ashley was. He conned you good, didn’t he? She shakes that off.
“I mean, hell, how the hell does this bet even work? This is all theoretical, unless you’re gonna pull out a pistol and shoot me dead here and now—and really, after the couple weeks I’ve had, please, consider it.”
She starts to slide off the stool. Her boots clomp on the wooden floor of the bar. “You’re ruining my flow, here, John, but here’s how it works: I give you a twenty-dollar bill right now—” She fishes into her pocket, slides a crinkly bill out and waves
it in front of him.
“This is how all cons start,” he says. “Textbook.”
She hisses, “Shut it, John—a lady is speaking. So. You take the money. You put my money in your pocket along with your money. You keep them there, always and forever, until the day comes that I have predicted your demise. If you don’t die that day? Then the money is yours. Go buy something nice for yourself: a cat, a steak dinner. A geriatric hooker, perhaps.”
“And if I die on the day? Then what?”
“Then I’ll be there. Waiting. And I will take the money from your pocket, and I will go on my way, twenty dollars richer.” She neglects to mention, That is to say, if my schedule works out, and if your corpse isn’t obliterated by a Mack truck, and if I’m not getting into some kind of other trouble that day.
He stares for a minute. Like he can’t even believe what she just said. Finally, he says, “In my life, I’ve heard some really goofy shit—and in the Army, I took some strange bets. I once ate the legs off a camel spider. I don’t recommend that, by the way. But that was me, in a certain place, in a certain time. This isn’t that. You know the phrase Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy?”
“Did you just have a stroke?”
“A Polish fella—a soldier—taught me that in Iraq. It means not my circus, not my monkeys. This bet is not my circus. And you are not my monkey.” He gives an awkward smile. “You have a nice night, miss.”
“Miriam. My name is Miriam.”
But to that, he says nothing else.
And anger runs through her. Scampering fast. It strikes her, then, how completely she wants this: to touch him, to see his death, to watch him in the throes of future death—whatever death awaits. She feels like a dog watching a man eat a hamburger: so close, so juicy, yet not in her mouth.
You’re an addict, she thinks.
Fuck you, she thinks right back. I’m trying to quit.
Sounds like what an addict would say.
Goddamnit.
She shoves the anger unceremoniously away—like lemmings urged off a cliff, little bitey furballs tumbling into the dark. Miriam grabs the rest of her margarita, polishes it off, and snatches a celery stick off her plate.
“Whatever, John. Good luck with whatever circuses and monkeys happen to be yours.” It comes out petulant, pissy, but hey, fuck it. She owes him nothing and she’s surprisingly stung by his rejection.
Then she’s off.
She hightails it toward the door, where the woman in the purple coat stands, pursing her lips as if in a pout.
Miriam lifts her chin in greeting. “Hey.”
“Are you Miriam?”
“Could be, rabbit. Could be.”
“I have a message for you. From the spirits.”
That, the woman says unironically. And out loud, for anybody near to hear.
Miriam scowls. “I hope by ‘spirits,’ you mean ‘liquor.’”
Purple Coat leans in, an almost-beatific smile lifting her round cheeks. Her green eyes flash. “No, Miss Black. The spirits of those gone have seen your arrival here and they asked that we meet. They said you want something, and they want me to be the conduit that brings you answers. They want to help you. Help you...” Here she tilts her head like she’s hearing music playing in another room and she’s trying to figure what song it is. “Help you escape something.”
Miriam chews on the inside of her cheek.
That’s interesting.
“Oookay,” Miriam says. “I’m ready to...accept the message. Let’s hear it.”
“We must go elsewhere for that.”
That’s how all cons start, she thinks before throwing a glance toward John still sitting at the bar. His back is to her. Drinking his beer. Eating his chili.
Asshole.
“Can I at least get your name?”
“I am Madam Safira Starshine.”
It takes Miriam every molecule of willpower she can conjure not to burst out laughing. What the hell is wrong with people?
Still. She’s intrigued. The hook is set in the meat of her cheek. Besides, what else is going on? John doesn’t want her voodoo. She’s not getting anywhere with this whole ‘Mary Stitch’ situation. No Louis. No Gabby. No anybody.
And so?
“Fine,” Miriam says finally. “Let’s roll.”
3. Now: Footsteps Fast Approaching
FOOTSTEPS. COMING closer to the door. Miriam hunkers down.
Then the footsteps stop.
A voice—a woman’s voice—calls through the door. “Miriam? I know you’re awake. I heard you moving around. I’m coming in.”
One moment. Two moments. Three. Then a squeak of a floorboard, a turn of the knob—the door starts to open inward. Part of a hand grabs the side of the door, eases it open. A shoulder. A glimpse of long, dark hair—
Miriam growls, kicks at the door. The door closes on the girl’s hand. A cry escapes her: a vulpine scream. Miriam thinks, Gotcha, bitch, but then the door flies back open as the woman barrels through it. A flash of dark hair, a glimpse of green eyes, and a shine of white teeth. Something is in the woman’s hand—not an axe but a hatchet, a hatchet like in the vision, and in that interstitial space between seconds, pieces start to fall into place, and suddenly Miriam knows who was screaming downstairs—though she doesn’t know why, or how, or what yet is actually going on. It’s not the blade of the hatchet that comes for her but rather the flat of it; it cracks against the side of her face as the girl backhands her with it.
Miriam’s left heel skids out and she crashes down hard on her shoulder.
The woman stands over her. Panting. It’s then Miriam sees:
She looks like me.
Same outfit: white, tattered T-shirt. Jeans rent by time and picking fingers. Black boots, too—Miriam’s are Docs and so are the woman’s. Scuffed and scraped in almost the same ways, the same places.
The woman blows a jet of air, lifting a frond of hair from her eyes.
The hatchet hangs heavy in the woman’s hand.
“Miriam,” she says. “Please. Don’t do this. Please. Wait.”
From the floor, Miriam snarls, “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Melora. I’m your sister.”
4. One Week Ago: Winged Rats, Holy Cheese
THE WOMAN drives a beat-to-shit VW Golf. Diesel. The headlights cut shaky yellow beams up the mountain road. The car bounces and shudders like it has the DTs. Ahead in the road, a pair of shining eyes. Something trundles in front of the car. A rangy, mangy thing: a fat possum. They wait for it to pass.
“I thought it would take more to convince you to come,” Madam Safira Starshine (and again, Miriam works every muscle in her body not to explode in laughter) says. “The spirits said you were quite...stubborn.”
“Well,” Miriam says, “I like to keep things interesting. You think I’m gonna jump left or run right, and instead, I urinate in all your houseplants. I’m just tricky like that, I guess.” She clears her throat. “Can I smoke?”
“Of course.”
Miriam taps out a cigarette. Lights it with a Bic, rolls down the window a crack to blow the smoke. Cold air, sharp like thumbtacks, sweeps in over her.
The woman pulls past a mailbox from which hangs some kind of dream catcher—and then into a small lot where a doublewide trailer awaits.
A sign out front:
MADAM SAFIRA: PSYCHIC DIVINATION.
Mm-hmm.
Miriam rolls her eyes so hard, she almost breaks her neck.
The woman gets out. Miriam sucks on the cigarette greedily, flings it into a nearby birdbath. Tssssss. The outside of the trailer is a fenced-in miscarriage of lawn decor: a pink flamingo, a cheap mold-and-plaster version of the statue of David, another of Venus, three birdbaths, a brown bear on its hind legs carved out of a log.
Inside, the trailer isn’t any better. Pink and purple curtains. Puke green carpet. More dream catchers. A black velvet painting of Engelbert Humperdinck—not that Miriam knows who the fuck that is, but his name i
s right there at the bottom of the “art” in glittery script. Plus, the standard trappings of a psychic faker: the crystal ball, the phrenology head, the Ouija board.
Shovelfuls of minor-league horseshit.
Right then and there, Miriam knows what her evening consists of:
Shaming this dumb, dumb woman.
A little part of her mind tries to convince her that this is the noble thing to do. Here’s a woman, pretending to be a psychic and scamming people out of their money. Some of these psychics are basically vampires—shit, they’re not even good enough to be vampires. They’re leeches. Mosquitos. Little ticks. They latch on with their lying mouthparts and drink deep as they can, long as they can, pumping their own foul, diseased effluence right back into you.
But a more persistent voice reminds her, You’re doing this because she’s trying to do what you do. Trying to steal her thunder. A pretender to this already-dubious throne. And fuck her for that. A petty, cruel desire, perhaps, to toy with this woman, but Miriam wants what she wants. Sure as fate and death and all the other demanding forces of nature in this world.
Whatever. She knows how this is going to go. Safira Starshits is going to reach for the crystal ball. Or try to read Miriam’s palm. Or feel her cranium for the bumps and divots of unforetold futures.
But that’s not what happens.
Instead, she holds up a finger, encouraging patience. She ducks down a small hallway, then returns with an object: a large bell-shaped something draped in black cloth.
(If Miriam had to guess: a birdcage.)
Then she scoots past to the kitchen—which is barely a kitchen, really, as Miriam knows the layout well, having lived in trailers now and again. The kitchen is just part of the larger room—though this one is half hidden behind a shelf of all her kitschy psychic bric-a-brac. The sucking sound of a fridge opening. Then closing.
